Wilderness Giant Edition 5 Read online

  The rattle of dirt increased. Winona looked up again. A tingle ran down her spine as Thunder Heart’s body began to slide toward her. There was no escape. It would smash into her, tear her from her roost, and together they would crash onto the boulders.

  It was not the end Winona had envisioned. She would rather have died in her cabin with her family by her side or in battle next to her mate.

  The Absarokas corpse slid faster, pouring more dirt and dust down on Winona’s head, so much that it choked her. She broke into a fit of coughing that threatened to tear her right hand loose.

  “Ma!” Zach and Evelyn screamed in unison.

  Thunder Heart was almost on top of her. Winona braced for the impact. It was then that the bluff rocked to the clap of a heavy-caliber rifle. Above her there was the familiar squishy thud of a lead ball ripping into human flesh.

  In a twinkling, Winona took it all in. Henry Allen had fired his Hawken at Thunder Heart’s head, blowing off the top of the Absarokas skull. It seemed a silly thing to do. But the Tennessean knew what he was about. The jolt of the ball bounced the body against the bluff and kicked it outward, flipping it into the air so that it narrowly missed her on its descent.

  Winona would have thanked Allen if she had had the breath. He had bought her a few more seconds of precious life. She hung there as limp as a wet rag, caked with dust from head to waist, on the verge of exhaustion. She’d had a good life. Her parents had treated her kindly, and even though both had fallen to a war party of Blackfeet, they had lived rich lives.

  About the same time, Nate King had claimed her heart. Of all the men she had ever known, both Indian and white, he was the one who had stirred her soul in ways she had never imagined any man ever could. He was the one who had kindled a passion so overpowering that the only way she could deal with it was to take him as her man. And wonder of wonders, since then that passion had grown, not tapered. It was safe to say that she loved him more now than she had when they first met.

  A new shower of dirt appraised Winona of the fact her time had run out. This one came from under her own fingers. The ledge was giving way entirely. Some of the dirt brushed her wrist. More did the same.

  “Grab hold!”

  Belatedly, Winona realized it wasn’t dirt that had touched her wrist. It was a shirtsleeve.

  Nate had arrived. Since he couldn’t reach his wife by leaning down, he had stripped off his shirt, gone prone, and dipped the shirt low enough for her to seize. “Hurry!” he goaded, aware of how little was left of the ledge.

  Winona did not need prodding. Impulsively, she snatched the sleeve with both hands and promptly dropped. For a few heartbeats she thought that she had torn Nate off the bluff. Jerking up short, she swung wildly, banging her right knee. She had to crane her neck to see her man. His face was as red as raw meat and he had his teeth clenched. “Are you all right?” she shouted.

  “Fine,” Nate lied. He thought that he had been firmly planted, but the abrupt weight of her body had yanked him forward over two feet and he was balanced on his belt buckle on the very lip. A sneeze was all it would take to send them both hurtling to their deaths.

  Some men would have lain there paralyzed with fright. Some would have hesitated, unsure of what to do. Some would have told their wives to try to climb to them rather than do that which Nate King did, which was to suddenly rear back onto his knees and haul upward with all the power in his broad shoulders.

  It was a bold gambit. If the shirt tore, or Winona threw him off balance, or he couldn’t pull her up, one or both would perish.

  Every sinew in Nate’s torso bulged as he raised her inch by laborious inch. He wasn’t all that worried about the shirt ripping. Winona had sewn it herself, double stitching the seams and sleeves so it would hold up under the roughest of wear. No, he was more afraid that she would lose her grip or that he would. And he couldn’t bear that last notion, couldn’t abide the thought of being responsible for her passing. He’d rather die himself.

  For her part, Winona did nothing that would make his task harder. She didn’t kick or try to climb. As motionless as could be, she let him do all the work. She had every confidence that he would save her. He was Nate. Her man.

  Below, Zach watched breathlessly as his ma hiked higher and higher. He could see his pa heaving, see the muscles on his pals neck stand out like bands of iron.

  Nate was tiring. The climb up the bluff had taxed him terribly. His mad dash to the west end had tired him even more. Now his body was being called on to go beyond any limit it had ever reached. Hand over hand, he pulled, pulled, pulled.

  All went well until Winona reached the rim. She couldn’t get up over it on her own. Nate had to exert himself an extra degree. A moment she hung there, her sweaty palms starting to slip. Their eyes locked.

  With a monumental heave, Nate yanked his wife onto the bluff and into his waiting arms. She molded herself to him and for the longest while they stood there, silent except for their heavy breathing and the fluttering in their chests.

  Then Winona kissed him. “You did it,” she said huskily. “It is over.”

  “Not by a long sight,” Nate said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Fire danced in the mountain man’s eyes. “I have a hunch that someone put Thunder Heart up to what he did. And that someone is going to pay.”

  Ten

  It was the middle of the afternoon. Richard Ashworth had repaired to his tent to rest on his cot and take leisurely swigs from a silver flask that had once belonged to his father. He liked to let the Scotch slowly burn its way down his throat into his stomach.

  Ashworth could no more get through the day without a few nips than he could without breathing. At the age of sixteen he had picked up the habit and he’d never been able to shake it. Not that he tried. His ability to handle liquor was a source of personal pride. Never yet had he met anyone who could drink him under the table.

  In a corner of the tent were stacked two unmarked crates filled with carefully packed bottles of Ashworth’s favorite brand. The mountain men knew nothing about the crates, nor was he about to tell them. Even though Kendall and Allen had maintained that those who signed on were an honest outfit, Ashworth doubted some of them would be able to resist temptation if they should learn of his secret stash.

  At the moment, Ashworth was mulling over when to break camp and head north. It annoyed him that King and Henry Allen had seen fit to wander off without so much as a word of explanation. Allen, in particular, knew that he was eager to get underway.

  Earlier that day Ashworth had sent Jenks and five competent trackers to go find the pair. Jenks had returned to report that they had tracked the two men in a clearing on a nearby hill, and that from the sign, it appeared King’s wife and a boy had been taken against their will by Crow Indians and that King and Allen had gone after them.

  Ashworth suspected that the mountaineers, for all their vaunted prowess, had been mistaken. He’d confronted Little Soldier about it, and the chief had assured him in no uncertain terms that the Crows would never commit so vile an atrocity.

  A shadow loomed on the flap of Ashworth’s tent.

  Involuntarily, he tensed, hoping it wasn’t Emilio. The watchdog was getting on his nerves. Every time he ventured out, there Emilio was. The man dogged his footsteps from the moment he woke up in the morning until he went to bed at night. It was aggravating beyond belief. Yet there was nothing Ashworth could do about it. He had given his word to the Brothers, and a proper gentleman never broke a promise.

  “Mr. Ashworth, sir!”

  The tension evaporated. It was Jenks, not the giant brute. Ashworth capped his flask. “What is it?”

  “You’d better come quick. There’s trouble at the gate.”

  Ashworth sighed. When it rained, it poured. Rising, he picked up his cape and shrugged it over his shoulders. “What sort of trouble, my good man?”

  “Nate King is back, and he’s looking to lift some locks.”

  The news
that King had finally shown up thrilled Ashworth. “What do you mean by lift some locks?” he inquired as he slipped the flask into a pocket.

  “He’s fixing to kill Little Soldier,” Clive Jenks clarified.

  Ashworth was out the tent in a rush and flying toward the stockade entrance. For once, he wasn’t peeved when a monstrous form appeared at his side. If trouble was brewing, he wanted Emilio on hand to deal with it. The Crows, he knew, were in awe of the swarthy Sicilian, and had dubbed Emilio Man-Bear in their language. Even the mountain men were treating Emilio with respect after one of their rowdier fellows challenged the giant to wrestle and had been soundly defeated.

  Ashworth had seen the match. It had taken place during the supper hour, over a week ago, while the expedition members were lounging around the stockade. The mountain man who issued the challenge, Ren Weaver, was himself the size of a tree, or so it seemed. From the lusty cheers and whoops that had gone up, it had been apparent he was highly regarded.

  Emilio had refused, at first. Only when Ashworth, for amusement’s sake, had told the giant that he could indulge himself unless he was afraid, had Emilio waded into the mountaineer and disposed of him so swiftly, the bout was over before it had really begun.

  Ashworth was still not sure what Emilio had done. He’d seen Emilio’s hands flick out, twice, and Weaver had oozed to the ground as if made of putty.

  A tremendous commotion brought an end to Ashworth’s reflection. Fully half the trappers were congregated just inside the gate and the rest appeared to be gathered outside.

  Shouts and cries filled the air. Ashworth couldn’t see what was happening for the press of mountaineers.

  “Let us through!” Clive Jenks yelled, but few paid him any heed.

  Ashworth, thwarted, glanced at the watchdog. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Barzini?”

  Emilio plowed into the mass of excited men with all the power and impact of a tidal wave. They parted before him like chaff before a storm, those who didn’t scatter being effortlessly shouldered aside as if they were so many rag dolls.

  Emilio’s face showed no emotion, but secretly he was immensely pleased. Until he beat their champion, Weaver, the mountain men had not thought much of him. He could tell. To have them recoil like sheep before a wolf gave him that feeling he often had in New York City when people on the streets of Little Italy, as the district was called, would cower in his mere presence, knowing that he worked for the Brothers.

  Emilio liked that feeling.

  In the Old Country, a man had earned respect two ways, either by being born into the aristocracy, or by belonging to La Cosa Nostra. The former bestowed wealth and prestige. The latter gave one a sense of power, power that stemmed from the raw fear La Cosa Nostra instilled in rich and poor alike.

  Since Emilio had not been born in the lap of luxury, and since he had not liked the idea of spending all his days toiling in a field under a burning sun, he had gone to the Brothers and offered to enter their service. They had gladly accepted him on the basis of his imposing size alone, and in no time he had risen through the ranks to become one of their trusted lieutenants.

  If Emilio had known that one day they would sail for America, he would never have gone to work for them. He loved the Old Country, loved it almost as much as he did the real reason he had come on Ashworth’s stupid expedition. Duty had little to do with it.

  Just then, Emilio plowed through the last row of trappers, and halted. In a cleared space in front of him were the Crow, Little Soldier, and the mountain man he had heard so much about, Nate King. They had knives in their hands and were circling one another.

  Emilio found this interesting. He preferred to kill with his bare hands, although on occasion he had used knives. And he knew other members of La Cosa Nostra who were masters with a blade. He was curious to see how well Nate King did, to measure King’s skill against theirs.

  Richard Ashworth, a few steps behind the giant, was appalled. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, couldn’t imagine what had gotten into King. By all accounts the man was one of the most reliable frontiersmen, yet there he was, trying to kill an Indian Ashworth rated an ally.

  The object of Emilio and Ashworth’s attention was unaware they had arrived on the scene.

  Nate held his Bowie low, the blade angled upward. He feinted, and had to admire the agility with which Little Soldier skipped to the left.

  The Crow’s face blazed hatred. On his right cheek was a large red puffy welt, courtesy of a stinging backhand.

  Nate had not minced words. He had not demanded an explanation. He had not given Little Soldier time to concoct an excuse. On spying the Crow outside the stockade, he had dismounted, walked up, said, “Thunder Heart sends his regards,” and hit Little Soldier across the face.

  Since no Crow warrior worthy of the name would allow himself to be struck with impunity, Little Soldier had promptly resorted to his knife, which suited Nate just fine.

  Taking a step to the right, Nate suddenly reversed direction, spearing the Bowie at the warrior’s chest. Little Soldier deftly parried, shifted, and tried to repay the favor. Nate ducked under the blow, slashing upward as he did. The edge of his blade bit into the Crow’s forearm. Not far, but deep enough to produce a trickle of blood.

  “You die!” Little Soldier hissed as he weaved a glittering pattern with his weapon. Every swing was countered, every stroke blocked.

  Nate skipped backward, away from an especially vicious thrust, one that would have deprived him of his manhood. He heard his son cry out.

  “Watch out, Pa! Behind you!”

  Among those watching the fight was a knot of Crows. They had been with Little Soldier when Nate and his family arrived, and several had made as if to intervene after Little Soldier was hit. Now Winona, Zach, and Allen covered them, keeping them at bay.

  Inadvertently, Nate had nearly bumped into one. The warrior’s hand rested on the handle of a tomahawk but the man made no attempt to use it. Not with Henry Allen standing five feet away, his Hawken leveled.

  It was Nate’s intention to kill Little Soldier. To that end, he pressed his attack, his Bowie constantly in motion.

  As weapons went, the big knife was a newcomer to the frontier. In 1827, the man widely credited as its inventor, James Bowie, had killed Major Norris Wright with one in the notorious Sandbar Duel, a fight written up in newspapers all across the country.

  As word spread of the knife’s size and reliability in tight situations, more and more frontiersmen wanted to get their hands on a Bowie. Cutlers and blacksmiths could hardly keep up with the demand.

  Just four years previous, Bowie himself had died at the Alamo, but the legacy of his famous knife lived on. Bowies were regularly sold at Bent’s Fort and other outposts, while back in St. Louis they were the knife of choice for any man venturing into the untamed wilderness.

  Nate had owned his only a few short months. For years a long butcher knife had sufficed. But on a recent trip to Bent’s Fort he had seen the shining Bowie in a glass case, and it had been love at first sight. He’d had to have it.

  Now that knife served Nate in good stead as the wide blade deflected a cut that would have opened his throat wide open. Pivoting, he kicked out with his right leg, tripping Little Soldier, who sprawled onto his back. Raising the Bowie for a fatal stab, Nate closed in.

  Richard Ashworth had seen enough. He would not stand idly by while the Crow leader was slain, not when he had given his word that so long as the Crows behaved, they were welcome to stay in the vicinity of the stockade with no fear of being harmed. “Emilio,” he said loudly to be heard above the throaty roar of the unruly mountaineers.

  Emilio did not need to be told what to do. A single step brought him up behind Nate King. He grabbed King’s knife arm in one hand, the scruff of Kings neck in the other.

  Nate had no idea who had jumped him. Thinking it must be a Crow about to kill him, he reacted automatically. He swept his left elbow back and around, catching someone in the ribs, a
nd used his own momentum to rotate on the heel of his right foot and slam his right fist into the square jaw of his attacker.

  It all happened in the blink of an eye. To the onlookers, Nate’s swing was an incredible blur. Even more astonishing was the result.

  Emilio had never been hit so hard in his life. His bones were jarred clear to his feet. The punch lifted him off the ground, something no punch had ever done before. More shocked than hurt, he landed sitting upright and sat there numb with disbelief.

  A hush fell over the throng. The only person to move was Little Soldier, who took advantage of the respite to spring to his feet and back away from Grizzly Killer.

  Richard Ashworth was stupefied. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought any man capable of knocking Barzini down. He saw the Sicilian flush scarlet, saw those massive hands bunch into fists the size of hams, and guessing what would happen next, he sprang between the two men. Flapping his arms, he ordered, “Enough! Enough! There will be no more fighting! Is that understood!”

  Nate, wary of getting a knife in the back, whirled to face Little Soldier and was surprised to discover the warrior had moved over next to the other Crows. His natural inclination was to finish the fight, but the warrior had lowered his weapon.

  Ashworth, worried that King was about to disobey him, moved around in front of the mountain man and planted himself broadside. “Didn’t you hear me, sir? Haven’t I made it clear that these Indians are under my protection? That being the case, I can hardly permit you to indulge in whimsical mayhem.”

  “What?” Nate said, growing less impressed with the New Yorker by the second. Allen’s praise notwithstanding, the man had to be a simpleton to interfere in someone else’s business.

  “Give me your knife,” Ashworth said, pointing at the Bowie.

  “Like hell.” Straightening up; Nate let the blade droop. He sensed rather than saw a new threat on his right, and twisted. A fist missed his cheek by a whisker.